


Fox and Hound

by Northland



Category: Rosemary Sutcliff - Eagle of the Ninth series
Genre: Gen, Roman Britain, Slavery, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2005
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northland/pseuds/Northland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>All of the characters' statements about slaves and slavery reflect their own (hopefully not anachronistic) beliefs.<br/>The character of Flavian is borrowed from Jay Tryfanstone's own story "The Centurion's Hound."</p></blockquote>





	Fox and Hound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jay Tryfanstone](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jay+Tryfanstone).
  * Inspired by [The Centurion's Hound](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/33589) by Jay Tryfanstone. 



_There can be no friendship nor justice ... towards a slave as a slave. For master and slave have nothing in common; a slave is a living tool, just as a tool is an inanimate slave._ \-- Aristotle

"Papa, are you a philosopher?"

Marcus covered his laugh with a drawn-out cough. "Not particularly. Few ex-soldiers are. Are you considering what to do when you are grown?"

"I'm still going to join the cavalry. Unless it's natural history, philosophy is boring," Flavian said with the ample scorn of a six-year-old. "But I heard Decius' parents talking. His mother said she couldn't understand why we didn't have any slaves, and then his father said you must be some sort of Greek philosopher and you'd soon learn your lesson. You're not Greek. If you're not a philosopher, why is it that we don't own slaves?"

His son's thin, brown face was merely curious; to him, slavery was only a word for a condition that existed elsewhere, no true concern of his. Marcus felt a flash of anger before remembering that he had striven to make it so for the boy.

He set aside the scrap of harness he was mending. "Come here, _rufus_ ," he said, and briefly drew the lad into the crook of his arm. Flavian dropped untidily, graceless as a pile of sticks, to sit on the dusty terrace at his father's lame side. Cub groaned in his sleep as Flavian played with one of the wolf's ears, pulling it through his fingers.

"We farm with free men because of Esca," Marcus said at last. "You know how I met him, yes?"

Flavian nodded, chin resting on bony knees. "Uncle Aquila told me the story, how you saw him fighting in the arena and bought him and set him free."

"Yes, I bought Esca from the arena, but I did not free him at once. He was my slave first, and then he became my friend. After a while it seemed ridiculous to claim that he belonged to me." He laid a hand on the copper head at his knee. "Owning another person is a dangerous thing, Flavian, on both sides of the transaction. It brings out baseness even where there may be none in the beginning. I suppose there are good slaves and good slave-owners, but I have seen few enough of either."

Flavian worked his fingers through the heavy ruff of fur round Cub's neck. "But everyone owns slaves; even the temples and the governor. How could they mine for tin without slaves? No free man would ever choose to do that work. And when we went to Sulis, I saw all the slaves who work there, bath attendants and doctors and--"

"I know," Marcus said. "I know. I cannot change the way the world goes, Flavian. But this is my land, and on it I can act as I think right. There will be no slaves here while I live." He looked out across the downlands that fell away before the farmhouse. In the thin afternoon sunlight they were a faded bronze, dimming to lead grey in the valley bottom. "When the farm is yours, I hope you will keep to the same ways, but it will be your decision. You must do as you think right."

Flavian turned and rested his forehead against his father's knee, considering. With his face hidden, the bright corona of his hair and the nape of his neck were so like Cottia that a sharp pain pricked at Marcus' breastbone. "I will speak to Esca," he decided.

"A wise thought." Marcus smiled. To Flavian, his father was a good man and respectable; but Esca was a hero, to be worshipped with a faith as strong as the one he had in the household gods.

*

In the morning, Flavian found Esca under the young fig tree in the farmyard. The air was still chill enough to bite, but here the sun was collected by the whitewashed walls and tiled roofs into a warm pool, and Esca was working in only a tunic. Coppiced hazel and willow switches lay piled ready to one side; he was choosing some to be split and woven into the broken hurdles stacked to one side of the byre. Flavian watched Esca's strong lean hands carefully work the knife in along the grain of the wood and waited until that switch was pried in half and Esca was reaching for another before he spoke.

"Would you ever keep a slave?"

The knife hesitated a moment before biting into the wood. "No, little fox. I saw enough from the other side to take away any taste for it."

"But it's not only Romans," Flavian protested. "The British have slaves too."

"After a fashion. Among us a man is not born a slave, and he rarely dies as one. If someone is enslaved for a debt, after it is paid he is freed. Women or children taken in battle..." He looked over at the child's clear dark eyes, and amended the words he had been about to use. "Well, they are often ill-used, but it is still not quite what a Roman would call slavery."

"I don't understand the difference," Flavian said. "Surely a man is the same whether someone else calls him a slave or not."

Esca's knife stopped. "I was the same person when I was a slave, yes. But no-one acted as if that were so except for your father. To others I was a possession; one to be valued and well-kept, perhaps, but still only a thing. And after a while you begin to feel as though they are right." He began again, the willow switch pressing against his calloused thumb. "Marcus said you'd overheard something from Decius' father?"

"Yes. He made fun of Father for not keeping slaves." Flavian chose a switch from the pile and swung it about, sketching aimless circles in the dirt. _Ah_ , thought Esca, _now we come to the heart of it_. "He called you Father's lapdog. I didn't like that."

Relief made Esca laugh. "Do I seem like a lapdog to you? My hair is not nearly curly enough."

"That's true." Flavian met Esca's eyes again and smiled reluctantly. "But I've heard you call yourself my father's hound. Isn't that like saying he owns you?"

One corner of Esca's mouth quirked. "Does that make Cub your father's slave?"

"No!" Flavian said indignantly. "He stays with us because we love him."

"So, then."

Flavian huffed an annoyed breath. "Now you're having fun with me."

"Maybe a little." Esca laid down his knife and ruffled the boy's hair. "This is heavy talk for a thirsty man. Go fetch a cup of water for me, if you will."

Flavian ran to the cistern on light feet, for his household gods were secure in their proper places again.

**Author's Note:**

> All of the characters' statements about slaves and slavery reflect their own (hopefully not anachronistic) beliefs.  
> The character of Flavian is borrowed from Jay Tryfanstone's own story "The Centurion's Hound."


End file.
